Wave of Memories

by Addison Fox

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  Aidan shrugged. “Fine.”

  At his simple shrug, Tyrus leaped. Aidan saw Meg’s flash of movement as she headed toward the bed, dragging the woman off of the satiny cover and onto the floor, against the far wall.

  Eris ran from her side of the room to join them, shifting with Meg so the two of them covered the mortal woman.

  Satisfied Meg was as safe as she could be for the moment, Aidan turned to face Tyrus.

  The tattoo on his back quivered with anticipation of the battle, but Aidan refused to let it out.

  He’d do this all by himself.

  Even Quinn seemed to recognize Aidan’s need to fight on his own. While the bull was clearly in place should he be needed, he hung stoically back, his feet planted in a battle-ready stance.

  Tyrus’s first attack was low and dirty, the move designed to catch him off balance. Aidan shifted, allowing Tyrus’s forward movement to carry him across the room before he tumbled into a large armoire.

  As the enemy of his childhood tossed his head, trying to shake off the tumble, Aidan leapt. With fists and feet, he landed as many blows as he could, determined to inflict as much pain as possible. With deliberate movements, he maintained the force of his body, shifting to use his feet so his hands were free to capture the knife that gleamed wickedly from a sheath at Tyrus’s waist.

  “You’re nothing but a spoiled brat.” Tyrus’s breath whooshed out on a rush of air as Aidan’s foot connected with his kidney. “A disappointment to your father,” he wheezed, while his eyes went wide as Aidan held the knife high.

  Riding that moment, Aidan stood, towering over the man who’d reveled in tormenting a child, one heavy, booted foot planted firmly on his chest. And as he stared down, he knew his past had no hold over him any longer. “You were created from nothing and you’re less than nothing.” With a glance over his shoulder, he motioned Eris forward. “You have the power to end him.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “You do. To create the Golden Apple, you inscribed something on its flesh.”

  Eris nodded. “To the fairest.”

  “And what did you inscribe onto Tyrus?”

  Aidan saw the moment Eris understood. As she leaned over, she dragged on his sleeve, lifting the material to reveal a faded scar, etched with a knife. “The Avenger.”

  Tyrus’s eyes widened in fear as he sensed the shift in Eris’s understanding and his struggles returned anew. Eris never moved her gaze from her creation, but simply nodded.

  Aidan slashed downward, dragging the knife cleanly through the scar. Tyrus’s loud scream echoed through the room before abruptly fading. His body evaporated, the ensuing two thousand years of his immortality vanishing as if they never were.

  Eris shifted her gaze. “How’d you figure it out?”

  Quinn grinned before slapping him on the back. “Because he’s an ass kicker, that’s why.”

  Aidan glanced across the room to where Meg still cradled the unconscious woman in her arms. “Take the woman and make her well,” he said to Eris.

  “That’s it?”

  “It’s the least you can do. I’ve got other things that need my attention. But she requires help and you’re going to be the one to give it to her.”

  Eris moved to take the woman from Meg, but stopped once she had the woman in her arms. “You know this isn’t over.”

  Aidan nodded before pulling Meg into his arms. “Another day.”

  Eris vanished into a port with the woman in her arms.

  Quinn slapped him on the back once more before leaning down and pressing a kiss to Meg’s cheek. “I’m going to go let my team off duty.”

  Aidan barely paid him any mind before pulling Meg to him and pressing his lips to hers. She opened for him, meeting him as an equal partner.

  When they finally broke off the kiss, curiosity and wonder filled her voice in equal measure. “How’d you know?”

  “I figured it out.”

  Meg laid a hand over his heart. “My scholar and warrior.” Her caramel gaze grew thoughtful as she stared into his eyes. “Something else has changed, though. I can see it. Feel it.”

  “I’m free of the past.”

  Hope filled her eyes as tears filled the rims. “Does that mean you’re willing to give us a second chance?”

  “I’d be a fool not to.”

  “Others would say you’re a fool to do so.”

  “A fool in love.” Aidan leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, murmuring against their lush fullness. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Click here for more books by this author”

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Addison Fox’s next exciting book

  in the Sons of the Zodiac series,

  WARRIOR ENCHANTED

  Available from Signet Eclipse in May 2012.

  The cool, slightly dank smell of her family’s brownstone basement surrounded her as Emerson ground herbs with a mortar and pestle. The satisfying crunch of stone on stone and the soft, airy scent of rosemary offered a soothing balm to the raging thoughts she couldn’t get under control.

  Drake loved her.

  She’d known it, of course, but the evidence—the acknowledgment from another person—was a swift kick to the head.

  And to the heart she’d tried so very hard to keep distant from him.

  She’d allowed her hormones and her brain to think they knew better—to think they could keep him at an arm’s length—and she was paying for it.

  Who was she kidding? She ground the pestle harder as the contents of the mortar grew to the consistency of the finest dust. She’d loved him since she was a young girl.

  She could even name the very first night she’d seen him, during that full moon the August she was fourteen. Emerson remembered it like it was yesterday. The moon had been high in the sky, the oppressive heat of the city in late summer breaking slightly overnight.

  She and her mother and grandmother had prayed to the goddess that night, chanting their prayers skyclad. Emerson had asked for extra help that evening, trying to find a way to get through to her older sister, Veronica, who refused to celebrate the moon with them.

  Her throat was still tight from the horrible fight they’d had that reduced them both to tears.

  Sadly, she now knew, they’d have many more along the same lines.

  After their ritual prayers, her mother and grandmother had eventually gone inside, but Emerson had wanted to enjoy the night sky a little longer. Wanted the time to stay wrapped in her thoughts as she tried to puzzle through her sister’s unwillingness to accept who she was.

  Who they were.

  It had been that moment when she’d stood, angry again and ready to pace, that she’d seen the tall head bob past their fence. Curious, she ran to the large wooden play set that now sat empty since she and her siblings had abandoned it and climbed up the wooden slats that ended in a fort.

  The cotton robe she’d put on after the prayer ceremony wrapped around her legs, slowing her motion so she had to take the rungs at half her normal speed, but some sense of urgency pushed her on. She’d just cleared enough of the ladder to see into the backyard next door.

  The man whose head she’d seen at the top of the fence was at the back entrance of the brownstone connected to theirs. He was bloody and bruised, looking exactly like she pictured the heroes of her books—Robin Hood, Ivanhoe and the Knights of the Round Table—after they returned from battle.

  He rested his head against the door as she stared at him, his shoulders slumping. He looked utterly defeated, like it was an effort to even stand there. Like the doorframe was the only thing holding his body upright.

  Emerson watched, fascinated that someone so large—a man so seemingly invincible—could look tired.

  And so lonely.

  Then he’d pushed off the door with some inner reserve of strength and stepped back. In quick movements, he shucked the filthy shirt he wore and he
r breath caught in her throat as moonlight coated his body. The heat of the summer night and the noise of the city faded away in that moment and she could do nothing but stare.

  At the large form of his body—the broad shoulders and thickly muscled back that tapered down to a narrow waist. He was powerfully built and the only thing Emerson could think was, this is what a hero looks like.

  Her gaze drank him in as an odd awareness settled low in her stomach and she felt a slight tingling between her thighs. The sensation was foreign, but exhilarating.

  Feminine.

  Powerful.

  He’d only stood there for a moment before pushing through the back door, but it had been all she’d needed.

  The man had captivated her.

  Emerson waited at least a half hour, watching and hoping for another glimpse of the man, until she finally climbed off the play set and moved into the house to her room on the fourth—and highest—floor of the old brownstone. And it took until dawn peaked through her curtains for her to finally fall asleep.

  After that night, Emerson stayed alert to any and all news of the occupants of the house next door. She’d always sensed the large brownstone held secrets, but now she had a face to put with those secrets. Stories had filled her head about the men next door—the made-up fantasies of a young girl. In addition to the man she’d seen, she knew of the others who lived there—large, imposing figures who looked like ancient warlords.

  She imagined them on covert missions, saving princesses and keeping the world safe for humanity. And him . . . the large warrior she’d seen in the moonlight. He’d fueled her fantasies for so long, always hovering in the back of her thoughts. Always causing her to take the men she dated and try to make them measure up.

  But no one ever did.

  “Emerson.”

  Dragged from her thoughts, it took her a moment to focus on the dark brown eyes of her grandmother.

  “What?”

  “Where were you? I’ve called your name about five times.”

  Emerson glanced down at her hands as her grandmother gently took the pestle from her. “I think you’ve done well enough there.”

  “Just wrapped in my thoughts.”

  “I can see that.”

  Gram took the stool next to her work table, a light mischief bubbling in her smile. “I suspect I know just who’s got you wrapped up, too.”

  Shades of the conversation she had the night before with Callie came back to her. “Grandmother.”

  A withered, gnarled hand stopped her from saying anything further. “I’m not prying and I don’t need the sass. I’m just teasing you.”

  Emerson dropped onto her own stool, the wind effectively knocked from her sails. “Sorry.”

  “You’re a grown woman entitled to your own business.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I can’t help but notice you’re not sleeping. Or eating all that much. Has Drake done something? Has he hurt you in some way?”

  The fierce set of her grandmother’s mouth had Emerson reaching for her hand. “No, no, no. Of course not. He’s wonderful, Gram. Really.”

  “Wonderful?”

  Emerson didn’t often find herself back-peddling—she was far too comfortable speaking her mind—but the urge to do it in this instance was strong. “I meant he didn’t do anything.”

  Gram’s eyebrows rose at that. “Nothing? Because he just doesn’t look like a man who sits there and does nothing.”

  “Gram!”

  “I’ve got eyes, Emerson. And that man is a vision.”

  And didn’t she know it. On a quick sigh, Emerson resigned herself to how neatly her grandmother had boxed her in. “What I meant is that he’s very good to me and you don’t need to worry that he’s not treating me right.”

  “That sets my mind at ease.”

  “Your nosey mind.”

  Emerson leaned over and pressed a kiss to her grandmother’s cheek. Like a spring wind that lay gently against your face, the familiar earthy scent she’d always associated with her grandmother filled her senses and offered simple comfort.

  Although her gram’s skin was thin and papery, the hands that clasped hers were strong. Firm. Capable.

  “I guess that leaves only one question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Are you treating him right?”

  “Of course I am.” Emerson diverted her attention to the worktable and reached for the small sheet of parchment paper she’d set aside earlier. Emptying the heavy mortar over it, she worked the finely ground rosemary from the bottom of the thick bowl.

  “That’s an interesting choice.”

  “What is?”

  “Unless my senses deceive me, that’s rosemary.”

  “Yes. I’d like to have it on hand for the ritual tonight.”

  “It’s a very intriguing choice.”

  Emerson stopped the process of extracting as much of the fine powder from the bottom of the mortar. “What is, Gram?”

  “Rosemary. Dew of the sea. Makes one think you had the Pisces on your mind the whole time.”

  The heavy mortar wobbled in her hands as Emerson’s attention snapped toward her grandmother. She juggled it momentarily, but managed to keep the heavy bowl in hand before settling it back on the table. On a deep breath, she gathered her thoughts, willing herself to remember why she’d selected the herb in the first place. “Rosemary is for remembrance. It’s for Mom.”

  Gram nodded and her shoulders seemed to contract from the weight of her own remembrance. “Of course. Well then, I’ll leave you to it.” Their conversation at an end, her grandmother slipped off the stool, her grip firm on the worktable as she got to her feet.

  Guilt nipped at her heels as Emerson reached for the mortar once again. “I’ll come up in a little while and we’ll have some lunch, okay?”

  “Of course, dear.”

  It was a long while later, after she’d packaged the contents of the mortar in a small vile, that Emerson remembered rosemary’s other use.

  It was traditionally associated with weddings.

  * * *

  “You look like hell, Drake.” Rogan slammed his cards down on top of the green baize card table and muttered a resounding “fuck” before continuing the inquisition. “What the hell happened?”

  Drake shrugged off the question and reached for a beer in the full cooler next to Quinn. “Nothing.”

  The Taurus slapped him on the back as he reached for his own beer. “Well, it looks like a whole lot of nothing planted itself across your face. Where’ve you been?”

  “Mucking through drug-infested waters in Southeast Asia.”

  “Why’d Themis send you there?” Brody threw his cards down with a sigh of disgust as Kane leaned forward and dragged the pot of chips toward him. “Couldn’t Takahashi take that one?”

  “She’s got him in Tokyo right now and it couldn’t wait.” Drake took a long drag of his bottle, the ice cold tang of the beer a balm on his throat. His body had almost fully shaken the effects of the drug-infested water, but he was still edgy. The way he saw it, a few beers and some cards should go a long way toward dulling those edges.

  Insults were tossed over the next several hands and Drake was already well into his second beer when “the wives” bustled into the room. He enjoyed the company of Ava and Ilsa and he’d already warmed to their newest addition, Quinn’s wife, Montana.

  “I know it’s poker night but none of us could resist showing off our new shoes,” Ava sang out as they descended on the table en masse.

  “It’s our lucky night, boys,” Rogan ground out around his teeth, which were currently clamped around a cigar.

  “Oh, shut up and go back to smoking that smelly piece of shit in your mouth,” Ilsa shot back at him as she dropped herself into Kane’s lap. “I’m sure my husband doesn’t want your opinion of my FMP’s anyway.”

  The question was on the tip of Drake’s tongue before Rogan beat him to the punch. “FMP’s?”

 
Drake saw Kane shake his head before Ilsa merrily chortled out, “Fuck me pumps.”

  “What the hell, Ilsa!” Rogan gently stuck his cigar in the ashtray next to him before shoving his hands over his ears. “You’ve scarred me for life.”

  “Oh, come now. You’re a big boy, Rogan. I’ve no doubt you’ve seen more than your share of FMP’s,” Ava crooned as she reached over her husband’s shoulder to sneak a peak at Brody’s cards before grabbing a handful of chips.

  “Yeah. On women who should be wearing said articles of footwear. I have no interest in envisioning them on my sisters.”

  “And it damn well better stay that way,” Brody muttered under his breath.

  Drake took another swig of his beer as Kane tossed a handful of chips around the slender woman in his arms. Damn, but this felt good. A few hands of cards with his warrior brothers and a bunch of good-natured ribbing and trash talk. Even the women had added a dimension to all their lives none of them had expected.

  Family.

  They’d always had a bond, but the women had turned their house into a home. And had formalized their relationship into something large and familial.

  So yeah, he and his brothers had to hear about FMP’s in addition to terrifying conditions like bloating, bad manicures and that horror of horrors, split ends. But these women had their back—not to mention some serious powers in their own right—and each and every one of them knew it.

  Drake figured it was a more than fair trade off.

  “Speaking of FMP’s,” Ilsa ground out before her gaze made a bull’s-eye on him. “There’s been some sexing in our Pisces’ room of late. In fact, I’m quite sure I heard someone sneaking out just last night which, I believe, made for the third night in a row.”

  “Ilsa!” Ava hissed.

  Drake’s good mood fled on swift wings as Ilsa’s words hung over the room. And before he knew it, the double-edged sword of family skewered him clean through. “Drop it, Ilsa.”

  Montana added a low-level “shhh” to Ava’s unspoken admonishment to shut up, without success.

  “Come one, Drake. We’re all dying to know.” Ilsa shot a pointed glance to the other two women even as a bright pink color spread up her neck and into her cheeks. “All of us.”